What We Were Made For
by The Consulting Storyteller
Summary: "Where was the time when they were the famous detective Sherlock Holmes and his assistant Dr. John Watson? Unfortunately, this time had long fled."
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** thanks again for the amazin Asian-Inkwell who took upon her time to beta this multichapter fic.

I have a Britpicker, now! Huge thanks to Hamstermoon on AO3 who offered her (indeed needed) help!

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**Chapter 1**

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"This is completely stupid! This is the stupidest thing you've ever done!"

"Still, you let me do it."

Without stopping his running, John turned to Sherlock who was close beside him, reproach on his lips. The rain beat furiously around them, straight and thick, but they hardly seemed to care.

They ran through Marble Arch without stopping, crossing the path of a night owl who was hurrying to return home, and went up along Great Cumberland Place. Doubled up with a stitch, John was soon forced to slow down. Hands clutching his knees, he fell against a wall, his breathing erratic.

"Enough," he hissed between his clenched teeth. "We _stop_ here. Anyway, I think we've lost them."

The surroundings were empty at this hour and in this weather. A few windows were lit, but the footpaths were deserted. The rain was still falling as if to plunge the street into shades of blue-gray, their soaked clothes stuck to their skin, but no revolving lights appeared.

"Damn!" John swore, his hand pressed to his aching ribs. "Why did you have to insult the witness?"

"His stupidity was equaled only by his blindness!" Sherlock protested. "He had all the elements under his nose and he barely had noticed them."

"Not everyone has your fabulous capacities of observation, Sherlock!" John retorted furiously. "Because of you, now, not only did we have to leave the crime scene, but we also have no idea what happened!"

They stood motionless, beaten by the rain, with John slowly catching his breath. They waited for the appearance of a tricolour car crowned with blue light, but no vehicle came.

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the end of the street a few seconds then realized they were alone. John, who was breathing again normally, approached him.

"Come on, Sherlock, we should go. We've done enough for tonight."

Sherlock sided with his opinion. He nodded, and then, the neck pulled in their shoulders, both walked away in the rain.

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They arrived at Baker Street drenched. Sherlock had raised the collar of his coat, but the effort had turned out to be useless. They entered hastily, water dripping from their clothes and cascading to their feet. The lights were off at Mrs. Hudson's flat, so they quietly went up the stairs as not to wake her.

John took off his shoes on arrival in the lounge while Sherlock hung his coat and immediately headed for the bathroom. Meanwhile, John went to his room to undress and put his dressing gown waiting for his turn for the shower. Hoping that Sherlock would not have taken all the hot water…

When he came out, the kettle was already on. Sherlock was in his pyjamas and dressing gown, looking at his computer.

"Hacking Scotland Yard again?" John guessed.

"I can't believe they missed the lipstick on the rim of the basin!" Sherlock exclaimed. "It was right in front of their eyes!"

John opened a cupboard, taking a tea bag that he slipped into his mug, and poured the boiling water.

"Maybe they thought it had a perfectly good reason to be there," he suggested.

"What kind of woman forgets her lipstick, John?"

"Perhaps the victim kept it?"

Sherlock looked up at him, frowning with an idea that his brain refused to consider.

"Why would he do that?"

John gave him a smile in reply and sat down in his armchair.

"Because there are people, men and women, who like to keep a souvenir of their affairs. I had a fellow in medicine, who kept girl's hair ties. It could be an elastic band or a hairslide."

"Fetish?"

John shook his head.

"Not especially. Not even another notch on his bedpost. For him, it meant that they were important."

Sherlock shrugged, holding a scathing statement, then went back to his computer.

"It's a shame they spotted us," he said regretfully, "I wanted to have a closer look at the bathroom. I feel that this is where the biggest clues are likely to be gathered. They should analyze the tub, look for traces of DNA, probe pipes, I'm sure there's a lot more to learn from the pipes."

John listened without saying a word. He slowly sipped his tea, listening to the rain outside as a gust of wind sent it to beat against the windows. Sherlock continued to read the new facts of the case, dropping an observation from time to time that sounded like sarcasm.

Eventually Sherlock finished sending his notes to Lestrade and as he did so John stood up.

"I'm going to bed", he said. "I suppose you'll want to go around the crime scene again tomorrow."

"Very likely, indeed."

"Well, see you tomorrow, then."

And John went to bed.

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**Note:** back again! This chapter is a bit short, but it'll get better, promise! Update every thursday.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Note:** Britpicked

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**Chapter 2**

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"John, wake up!"

John awoke with a start, slammed in the face by his pillow.

"Hmm… What?"

"Wake up!"

"What? Whaddahell?"

Wading in the wobbly rest of sleep, John rubbed his befuddled eyes and made out the silhouette of Sherlock who fidgeted about in his room, throwing various clothes on the bed.

"A report has just appeared in news websites," he explained, "an apparent suicide in Greenwich. Come on; we're going."

John then had the idea to look at his alarm clock. The bright letters almost assaulted his vision.

"What? Sherlock, it's three o'clock in the morning!"

"Precisely, the crime scene will still be fresh. Come on, wake up!"

Realizing that he had no choice, John obeyed, yawned loudly, and then put his clothes on growling. Sherlock was already back downstairs to gather his belongings, John heard him whirling about in his room.

They managed to catch a cab and drove towards Greenwich.

"So?" John finally asked as they passed Oxford Circus. "What do we know about this case?"

"A man called the police saying he'd heard a gunshot in the flat next to his. The call was reported in an hour ago. The Met must already be on the scene."

"And why are we interested?"

"Apparent suicide. I love apparent suicides because they're only looking like one and it's always fun to prove that it's a murder."

"What makes you say that this is not really a suicide?"

Sherlock, who was typing various things on the screen of his mobile phone, looked up at him.

"The weapon. According to the information contained in the article, it's a firearm. A gun, to be exact."

"So?"

"Women rarely use firearms to commit suicide, unless they have no other choice. And even less in the temple. This is a way too violent, not feminine enough."

"Why?"

"Vanity, John. A woman always has the concern for her appearance at all times. By reflex, she'd choose a more discreet way or place. The temple with a gun is too messy."

"If you say so…"

John had finally learned to never stress out when Sherlock appeared to be so sure of himself. He leaned back in the seat of the cab, rubbing his still heavy eyes. Damn, what he would have given to stay in bed… He just hoped that the crime scene was not too long and that he would resist long enough.

They arrived in Greenwich, and the cab stopped at a sufficient distance from the crime scene so as to not attract attention to themselves. Except for a few lighted windows, the area where they had gotten out was empty, but they could already hear the siren of a police car that was going away.

They walked down a deserted street which led to a slightly wider street, in which some onlookers crowded. A swarm of coloured lights then drew their attention to a building façade where the Yard teams were gathered around.

Sherlock analyzed the scene in a glance. Two police cars, the van belonging to forensics. Obviously, they hadn't removed the victim's body yet, which was good news.

They went around the neighbourhood area to locate the access. On the other side of the building block there was a block of flats where the onlookers came and went; maybe they could enter there. There must have access to the roof, through which they could get access to the building that interested them.

They waited around, until a little old lady went. The two men rushed after her, Sherlock flashing a charming smile and joking about the animation in the street next door. The lady smiled back, adding that it was safer nowhere, which Sherlock didn't care about, but he refrained from showing it. John had patiently and bravely managed to make him understand that friendliness went much more unnoticed than haughtiness. They joked one minute with the lady who eventually disappearing into a lift, then went up the stairs to the roof. As expected, the two buildings communicated. It wasn't that difficult for them to find the emergency door leading inside.

The building was crowded, its occupants all milling around. They were talking to each other in the corridors and even standing on the stairs as they satisfied their curiosity as to what was going on. Sherlock winced because their presence would certainly complicate things, but for now it hid them from the police by making them look like they had a reason to be there.

The crime scene was three floors below the roof. The whole level was sealed off and tenants asked to stay away in order to facilitate the work of the police. With his natural authority and one of Lestrade's pickpocketed warrant cards, Sherlock made his way among the onlookers gathered before the blue police tape that closed access to the stairs and went below without ceremony, followed closely by John who took his notebook from his pocket and quickly took a few notes to get under the skin of his character. He prayed they wouldn't be recognized by an officer who had earlier experience of their intrusions; but luck seemed to be on their side as the young officer posted outside the door of the victim's flat nodded without blinking at the badge Sherlock waved under his nose.

"I've been informed that the witness is still present," he started immediately. "I want to talk to him."

The agent pointed towards an unshaven man in a t-shirt and a jogging bottoms.

"Right there, sir."

Sherlock immediately walked towards the witness, followed by John. He nodded, and then again cast an eye over the police team that milled around them in case one of them recognized them. He had already spotted the exit down the corridor.

"It was you who called the police after the shot?" he asked the witness straight off.

The man shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. Fear reaction. Late thirties, only child, probably born and raised in the neighbourhood. No pet, single. His shirt stretched over a belly that showed the remains of the frozen pizza that had recently provided him with a meal. Engine oil under his fingernails: garage mechanic or similar. Sherlock also noticed his taste for low quality beers, nearly advised him to wear earmuffs at work judging by the way he turned his ear in their direction, but refrained, waiting for the answer.

"Yes, it's me…" the man replied in a breath that smelled of smoke and frantically scratching an arm studded with blood tests.

"Tell us exactly what you saw and heard."

"Listen… I already told your colleagues everything, what more do you want? I was quiet in front of my TV, and then 'bang! '. I swear, I freaked out."

"About what time, more or less?" Sherlock continued while John dutifully took notes.

The witness looked vaguely in the air, probing his memory.

"Gosh, I don't know. Something like half past eleven in the evening. It was in the middle of the last episode of NCIS on Channel 5. I could have imagined that it came from the TV, but it made such a racket…"

"You called the police immediately afterwards?"

The witness raised his hands in a defensive posture.

"Hey, you people obviously like to live dangerously. Me, I work in a junkyard, I watch films with a beer and a pizza. I hear gunshots; of course I won't dare to play the hero. Yes, I called right away, I wouldn't take the risk of letting this guy turning up at my place too."

"Calling the police is a brave thing to do," John suggested. "Most people would just prefer to hide and wait it out."

He glanced at Sherlock.

"Have you finished?" he enquired.

Sherlock turned, signaling that he was actually done. John thanked the witness with a smile and followed Sherlock who had taken the direction of the flat.

"Do you really want to take the risk of going in?" he asked apprehensively. "There must be a dozen in there."

"Precisely, we'll be less conspicuous."

John always doubted, but he was constantly impressed by the mathematics where the chances of being seen were inversely proportional to the number of people present at the scene.

The place was small, a two-roomed flat simply furnished. Sherlock immediately noticed the missing furniture and the few clothes in the bedroom's wardrobe. Financial problems, then. The small cabinet near the front door collapsed under mail. Bank, loan offices, life wasn't prosperous for the victim. A-side mail, an answering machine had the indicator blinking. Without waiting, Sherlock pressed the play button 'Hello, Allison, this is Mandy! You can call me as soon as you get this, please? Cheers! '. He noted the time of the call: 10:37 PM. He then turned to look at the door. It was picked, but discreetly so that it was almost undetectable. Professional job. Sherlock couldn't repress a smile: the suicide was actually apparent.

"Sherlock…" he suddenly heard John's voice.

He immediately recognized the urgent tone and straightened, leaving the flat immediately. In the hallway, DI Dimmock advanced, in conversation with what appeared to be the first police officer who had arrived on the scene. Dimmock hadn't seen them yet. Sherlock stifled a curse and, Dimmock still conversing, turned quickly to take a quick look at the main room where the victim's body still was. No signs of a struggle, no missing objects except those that had been sold, although it was difficult to tell the difference. Empty glass on the coffee table, two broken nails, heating off, clock running four minutes slow, a small circular piece of what looked like aluminum, he stored all he could see in a few seconds. Then just had time to turn and walk down the hall, John on his heels. At a brisk but sure pace, they advanced towards the emergency exit previously located, and fled.

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	3. Chapter 3

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**Notes:** Britpicked! :D

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**Chapter 3**

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"There are many conflicting factors in this investigation, John," Sherlock stated a few hours later before a tea.

"Really?" John yawned. He had slept little, and would have gladly stayed in bed, but Sherlock's morning violin hadn't given him that luxury. He stretched his shoulders, chasing numbness in his muscles.

"Really," Sherlock confirmed. "Come and look at this."

John rose painfully from his armchair and leaned over the shoulder of his friend.

"What am I supposed to be seeing?" he asked.

"Everything. Nothing is consistent. Suicide apparent but her lock was picked, a message on the answering machine at a time when the victim was supposed to be alive… And then there's this."

Sherlock displayed a new file on the computer screen and turned to John.

"Tell me what you see."

It was the analysis of the victim's fingerprints on the weapon. The photos showed the fingerprint powder making them stand out starkly white against the dark metal. They were photographed from different angles. The comparison had permitted a 100% match.

"Obviously, it was her holding the gun," John concludes, "How is it an element that doesn't match?"

Sherlock immediately looked up at the sky. John soon realized that he had missed a parameter.

"Come on, John, a former military with a wide experience of firearms, you can't be that stupid."

So the problem didn't reside in the origin of the fingerprints. He focused again on the pictures and, as taken by a sudden inspiration, mimed spontaneously holding a gun in his hand. A smile split his face in two when he understood where the anomaly came from.

"The arrangement of fingerprints is illogical," he deduced.

"Exactly. The gun wasn't held properly."

John leaned back on the computer. Now it was brought to light, the mistake was indeed obvious.

"It doesn't make any sense," he said. "If she had really held it this way, the weapon should have been forced out of her hands by the shot."

"But she had it in her hands when the police arrived on the scene."

John bit his cheek.

"The ballistic analysis?" he asked.

"Positive. The bullet that killed her came from this weapon."

John straightened.

"Okay, let's summarize: the victim had money problems, big money problems. Enough to receive letters from the bank and loan offices, besides selling her furniture. The bullet that killed her came from a weapon she was holding when her body was discovered. That calls for suicide. She was in debt and wanted to escape."

"Except that" Sherlock continued, "Her lock was obviously picked by a stranger. The arrangement of her fingerprints on the weapon is completely erratic. Her answering machine has a message dating from a time when the gunfire hasn't yet sounded."

"If she was murdered," John suggested, "Maybe she was already with her murderer and she couldn't answer?"

Sherlock raised his forefinger to emphasize his theory.

"It's an idea," he tempered, "Except that there's more."

He opened a new file.

"The first conclusions of the forensics" he announced. "Look at the time of death."

John leaned forward, and immediately raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"It's impossible," he stammered. "They must have been mistaken."

"Despite my scepticism towards their skills, I doubt they are that stupid."

John reread the file to be sure that he'd read the words correctly.

"9:30 PM – 10:00 PM? But it's almost two hours before the shot! It can't be possible."

"I'm afraid it is."

"Then the witness lied?"

Sherlock pouted.

"The file doesn't mention the verbal evidence of other residents of the floor, but I think we can assume that if the shot was heard, the weapon wouldn't have a silencer. Therefore, it had to be heard by many people. If all the evidences points to the same time, either they are all lying, or something is missing."

John straightened.

"Or," he suggested, "The time estimated by forensics is correct. She was already dead at the time of recording the message on her answering machine."

"This is my conclusion. But in that case, why this scene? And on top of that, what has killed her in the first place if it's not the gun? This is especially the way the lock was picked indicates that the stranger who introduced himself into the flat is experienced. Would an experienced killer take the risk of letting his gun wake the whole neighbourhood? He would have put a silencer."

"You know the criminals better than me, Sherlock."

John then turned and sat down in his armchair with a sigh, putting his computer on his lap and logging onto his blog. Sherlock was already immersed in the intricacies of the case, quickly typing on his keyboard.

"What are you going to call this one?" He wanted to know.

"I haven't thought about it yet. 'The Double Death ', maybe."

Sherlock didn't answer, but John didn't need to look up to guess the half-smile of his friend. Sherlock had never hidden his scepticism about his choice of titles, the same for his propensity for romance.

'_Late at night, the information reached us that a strange death had taken place in Greenwich. When we arrived the crime scene presented us with the strange picture of a familiar scene but some elements we couldn't have predicted. This case, and we didn't know it yet, had a few mysteries in store for us…_'

For convenience, John never mentioned in his articles how their investigations 'reached ' them, much less how they were 'arriving' to the crime scene. Besides the fact that it protected them from the police, they avoided the occurrence of fans claiming to act like them.

John looked at his draft critically. 'The Double Death ' finally seemed like an accurate title.

John sank further into his armchair, thinking about the last crime scene they had fled. He felt a fist in his chest when the image of Lieutenant Dimmock arriving on the scene floated in his memory. What would have happened if he had seen them? John abandoned the keyboard, resting his arms on the armrests, hundreds of scenarios scrolling through his head, making his stomach contract with anxiety. He hated this feeling that he desperately couldn't get used to. Increasingly, their new situation weighed on him. Increasingly, he felt a flush of nostalgia to remember what their lives were before. Where was the time when they arrived on crime scenes as on conquered territory, with the blessing of Lestrade and the antipathy of Sally and Anderson? Where was the time where their deductions were more valuable than the results of an entire team of investigators? Where was the time when they were the famous detective Sherlock Holmes and his assistant Dr. John Watson?

Unfortunately, this time had long fled.

After Moriarty's fall at Barts, John and Sherlock were fully aware of the existence of a whole network behind him. Determined to bring down that network, they had decided to disappear. Molly had helped, she had provided the bodies and falsified reports while Sherlock and John had faked their deaths, one by jumping from the hospital roof, the other using his own gun in the living room at Baker Street. Released from any liability and any official existence, with new identities, they had had free reign to destroy Moriarty's accomplices wherever they were in the world. The task was daunting; it had tested them many times. They had been homesick. They both stayed in luxury hotels in Abu Dhabi as well as under bridges in Mexico. Their target sometimes disappeared to return elsewhere, but they always ended up achieving their goals. It took them two years, they had returned exhausted, but they had reached their goal.

But their return at the face of the public hadn't been pleasant. Nobody had forgiven them their little sleight of hand. John and Sherlock were aware of having left behind many people in distress, but dying provided the best solution to allow them to disappear. Nobody had understood. Nobody had wanted to understand. Considering themselves betrayed, all the people they knew had disowned them. Harry, Stamford, even Lestrade, to the great satisfaction of Sally and Anderson. Even Molly, who accused them of keeping her out despite the help she had given them. And Mrs. Hudson, although she had consented to let them reoccupy the flat, didn't show herself to them anymore. They heard from her time to time at home, they slipped the rent under the door but they hadn't seen her since. As to Mycroft, he never had any contact with them. They had become strangers, outcasts; Sherlock had no more requests to take on cases, and John no more patients. It was as if the people they loved had got used to their absence and they wanted to keep things that way.

Since then, John and Sherlock scraped a living as best as they could, hacking The Yard's files and infiltrating crime scenes. Sherlock then sent his findings to Lestrade who was free to do what he wanted with them, while John blogged the new turn of their adventures. This didn't allow them to live, but they managed. Because that was what they were made for.

While John was focused on his blog, Sherlock had left the matter on hold and took from the fridge a tupperware containing a mold culture. The body parts had become a less common commodity since he no longer had access to the morgue at Barts and Molly's favours. The few he had managed to have, currently a string of toes, he had got hold of by stealing. And when he had no chance to get anything human he fell back on molds, ashes, perfume compositions, anything that could fall under the eye of his microscope and enrich the records of his website. Occasionally, a specimen exploded, putting a little life into the now, formless, flat.

That was what their new life was in 221B Baker Street.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** Britpicked!

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**Chapter 4**

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John woke up the next morning to the sound of a blowlamp. He was so used to Sherlock's practices that he had come to recognize the instruments he used at the mere sound. And this morning, it was obviously the blowlamp.

He yawned as he stretched, scratched his head, got up, and went down to the lower floor. In the kitchen, Sherlock was attacking something with fire. It was what looked like a bulls head or at least what was left of it. Its scent hovered in the room with the powerful smell of charred meat.

John didn't even flinch before the show. He had long been accustomed to wake up to experiments even more weird than these ones.

"Hello," he greeted nevertheless.

Face hidden by a welder's mask, Sherlock replied by nodding to him. John turned and, ignoring the current experiment, prepared his breakfast. He didn't fail to notice that the use-by date on the butter had almost expired and that he would definitely have to make the trip to Tesco today. He moved to the coffee table and turned on his computer.

"Further information on the Greenwich case?" he inquired.

The blowlamp extinguished in the kitchen, and he heard Sherlock remove his mask.

"The result of the autopsy hasn't yet been added to the file, but they went into the track of the neighbour, because of the time difference between his testimony and the forensic estimation. What I find completely stupid because they would just have to ask other neighbours to ensure the veracity of his statements."

He set down his equipment, leaving on the table the smoking bull's head.

"However, this is a track that may have an interest. According to the record, the witness has recently deposited on his bank account a large sum of money in cash. For someone who works in a junkyard, he doesn't seem very clear."

"Do you think he has been paid to lie, or to commit the crime?"

Sherlock crouched down as usual in his armchair, fingers reached under his chin.

"Commit the crime, I doubt it. He doesn't have the profile of the killer. The state of his hands suggests he works crudely, he would certainly not have the dexterity needed to pick a lock with so much fineness."

"An accomplice, then?"

"To pick a lock? When as a neighbour it would have been enough for him to ring her door? No, this man is not our killer."

John shrugged, all right with his conclusion.

"Well… In that case, where does that money come from?"

"There's only one way to find out."

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Released by his lawyer, the suspected witness had gone home. Sherlock found this strange. It was hard to conceive that the mere employee of a scrapper's yard would have had the means to afford such an effective lawyer. However, he didn't complain, it would greatly facilitate the task.

The police had left the building, leaving only the seals on the door of the crime scene. Sherlock passed without giving it the shadow of a look, knowing it was unusable after the Yard's researches, and went directly to ring the doorbell of the strangely opulent neighbour.

The man looked to heaven when, after opening the door, he saw the two men on his doormat.

"I told your colleagues that I was ready to stand at the disposal of justice if they needed," he sighed wearily.

"We are not our colleagues," Sherlock replied immediately. "Where does your extra income come from?"

"I have already told people, I make a bit on the side. You won't blame me for wanting to earn a bit extra, will you?"

But Sherlock didn't seem convinced by this explanation. He advanced a step, blocking the door.

"I'm not an expert in illegal work, but 7000 pounds, that's a lot of money for an a bit on the side or overtime."

"I work late; I have the right, don't I?" the witness protested. "Seriously, guys, I come home from work, I sit down to eat my pizza, I hear my neighbour being shot down, I do my duty by calling you, and it's me who gets suspected because I'm topping up my income as I can?"

John immediately bit his cheek. A wince from Sherlock told him that it looked like their 'offended' interviewee was going to get more than a little of his deductive skills aimed at him. The detective indeed looked at the man dead in the eyes.

"You weren't just back home that night," he asserted. "And it's precisely your pizza that told me."

"My pizza?" the man faltered.

With a flick of the chin, Sherlock pointed to the coffee table in front of the couch in the living room.

"Cardboard soaked in oil made clear it originally contained a very large pizza indeed. Unless you've eaten like a horse, you would never have the time to swallow all that in the time between when you say you got home and the time you heard the shot. You had oil on your t-shirt. You just said yourself, you were going to eat your pizza. So where did it go?"

Trapped, the witness shuffled from one foot to the other, uncomfortable.

"I could have been eating up until the police arrived," he suggested.

Sherlock had to remember not to raise his eyes to heaven.

"Just the fact that you suggested it as a possibility indicates something else. Especially with your poor health (he pointed to the punctures on his arm) and your intense nervousness; I hardly imagine you quietly eating your pizza while waiting for the police, knowing that your neighbour had just been killed in the flat next door. The truth, I'll tell you: you returned home earlier than you said. And why? Because you don't do overtime. So for the last time, where did the cash come from?"

The man became very pale, and John thought he was about to faint.

"Listen," he interposed, "Because of that money, rather than being a witness you became a suspect. If you really have nothing to do with things, tell us and we'll leave you alone."

At these words, the witness' shoulders fell. He ran a hand over his resigned face. Mute, John and Sherlock waited until he made up his mind to speak.

"I knew I shouldn't have put that money in the bank," he surrendered then. "It's just that… I didn't want to keep so much cash with me. True, I could be attacked in the street, or robbed."

He paused, waiting for an approval, but nothing came and he had to continue:

"The job pays poorly. With my health problems on top of things it wasn't easy. So I started to deal."

John frowned.

"Deal… You're talking about drugs?"

"No!" the witness protested, and his shocked look left no doubt about his sincerity. "I'm not into that shit, I'm not crazy."

"Spare parts," Sherlock understood.

The witness nodded ruefully.

"We have so many cars… What is more or less spare? So I do them up, and I resell them on the black market. I need heavy medicine and NHS is not sufficient so it makes me money for my treatments, what do you want, times are tough."

Sherlock was silent, analyzing the sincerity of his words. Then he stepped back.

"Will you tell your colleagues?" the unfortunate neighbour asked. "Look, I want no fuss, all I want is to get better."

"It seems to me I have already informed you that we weren't our colleagues" Sherlock interrupted. "However, I have one last question to ask you."

The man didn't really have a choice.

"Go on," he sighed darkly.

"Are you sure of the approximate time that you heard the shot? You are sure not to be mistaken?"

The witness immediately straightened.

"I've already said it. It was in the middle of the last episode of NCIS on Channel 5. It made such a racket that it certainly couldn't have come from the TV."

"You heard something else, then?"

The man pushed in his head in his shoulders, embarrassed.

"Well… actually… You know, when I heard the noise, I didn't think twice. I freaked out at once. The first idea that came to me was to hide in my kitchen with a potato peeler. I know it's pathetic, but I'm not like you. I freaked out, I hid myself, I called you. End of story."

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The front door slammed behind them. Once in the living room, John carelessly threw his coat over the back of his armchair before he collapsed into it.

"Well," he summed up, "We finally know that the murderer is definitely not the neighbour."

"Wonderful conclusion that illustrates your analytical mind perfectly, John."

He cast a weary glance at Sherlock, who just sat in his own armchair, fingers of thoughts together under his chin.

"You're disappointed, admit it," John quipped. "What did you hope for? That hearing the shot, he would have gone outside? Everyone isn't as recklessness as a certain consulting detective."

Sherlock didn't answer, deep in his mind palace. John made a vague gesture.

"Maybe the forensics were finally wrong," he suggested. "It takes very little to misread something : a difference of temperature, a change of environment… Unfortunately we couldn't see the victim's body; it may be elements that we lack."

"Or she was well and truly dead at the estimated time by the forensics and someone came behind to polish the job," Sherlock went suddenly.

"Polish the job?" John was surprised. "What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock opened his arms, placing them on the armrests of his armchair.

"That someone bothers to pick her lock to shoot her in the head and then set it all up to look as if it was a suicide, this was no ordinary murder. It was an execution. She certainly owed money to the wrong people."

John agreed with him, but that didn't explain the actual time of death. If forensics were correct, the victim was already dead when her executor had come to her home. In which case, if this theory was correct, why did he still bother to act at the risk of alerting the whole building? It was absurd.

"Nothing new in the file?" John asked then. "Perhaps there have been other elements in between."

Sherlock took his computer and turned it on. Meanwhile, John got up and went to the kitchen to boil water for tea. The charred bull's head was still on the kitchen table, and John thought that he would have to remind Sherlock either to package it or to get rid of it.

"Oh…" the latter's voice came in then.

John, pricking up his ears, returned to the living room. Sherlock was staring at the computer screen, frowning before an obvious illogicality.

"What's going on?" He asked.

"The toxicological analysis of the victim came out."

"And?"

Sherlock looked up at him.

"Medicine," he replied.

John frowned for a second, and then he understood.

"Drug overdose?"

"Phenobarbital."

"A barbiturate against anxiety and sleep disorders," John responded reflexively.

He went to Sherlock and leaned over his shoulder.

The analytical result was there, unquestionable. The victim had ingested a massive amount of phenobarbital, causing depression of the central nervous system and slowing down of bodily functions, followed by a coma that had led to the death. Not far from about fifty tablets had been found in her stomach. Sherlock then thought about the little piece of circular aluminium left on the carpet. The cap of a simple bottle of pills.

"A good old suicide by barbiturate," John concluded with disenchantment. "One thing for sure is that to swallow as much as she did, she really wanted to be done with it."

He straightened.

"So the time estimated by the forensic is correct," he summed up. "And now we have the actual cause of death. There is just one thing I don't understand: the murderer gets into his victim's flat. He finds her dead by suicide. Rather than leave her like that, why did he still bother to shoot her? He finds a suicide, that he turns into a murder, to disguise it as a suicide, it doesn't make any sense."

"Perhaps he had instructions," Sherlock suggested. "Perhaps the execution of the victim should serve as a warning to others, or maybe the murderer is good at his job but a bit dim when it comes to setting scenes."

Unfortunately, their sphere of action being limited, all comments from this step were reduced to theories. They certainly were now convinced that the victim had been "killed" twice, but they had no evidence to identify the perpetrator of the second action, which frustrated Sherlock at the highest point. He knew that the analysis of the firearm and the search for its origin would give excellent clues, but he had neither the weapon nor the means to study it. Which frustrated him even more. All he was able to do was send his findings to Lestrade and wait.

An article in the newspaper a few days later finally revealed the end of the puzzle. There was narrated that the history of the firearm found at the crime scene had helped to track down a man named Charles Hamilton. This man, who had acquired the gun legally, had sold it on a dedicated sales website. The buyer, after research of the transaction, had proven to be one Igor Ivanovitch, Russian subject working as a security guard in a casino. The latter, after several hours of interrogation, had finally admitted his guiltiness in the Greenwich case. The victim, with a debt of tens of thousands of pounds, had been unable to pay back. His boss had therefore ordered him to solve the problem, which he had been eager to do. The only problem was that his target was already dead when he arrived; at least she looked like it, with a pack of pills in her hand. But wishing to avoid problems if his target was to escape, he had done as he always did: conceal the murder into suicide and prove his work in the newspaper the next day. This dedication would eventually ruin it. His confession led to the arrest of his boss, the casino manager, and, according to the newspaper article, they were currently in detention waiting for the trial.

John closed the newspaper and put it with others on the coffee table. He knew that Sherlock had already read them and wouldn't bother to reread them again. Once the problem was resolved, the rest was only bureaucracy, a topic Sherlock found completely uninteresting.

The latter was leant on a toe he had brought out from the freezer to study the effects of freezing on the cells. Obviously, he hadn't yet found a case that could sharpen his curiosity.

John picked up the newspapers and threw them away.

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	5. Chapter 5

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**Notes: **Hello! I'm so so so so so sorry for making you wait all that time, there, I shoving my face on the floor, just to show you how sorry I am.

At first, the plan was to let my britpicker brtipick all the work before publishing it, as I hate being late when I promess a rythm of publication, hence the hiatus. But she had to deal with school and finally, she found herself busier than ever. She had to give up britpicking, as she didn't have time anymore, and I had to take a decision.

So I took upon me to start publish again. It won't be as regular as before, as I'll have to beta/britpick the thing myself, just for it to be as perfect as I can manage. But I consider it as a good exercise.

Still keep in mind that it isn't britpicked.

For those who were there before, hi again! For those who join us, welcome!

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**Chapter 5**

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Several weeks passed by without any case worthy of the name would show itself. Indeed, they had some cases, two robberies and a kidnapping, but nothing really valid according to Sherlockians standards, and John had to endure his flatmate's frustration more than once. He had to hide and change more often his gun of places to save the wall even if, unfortunately, one shot wouldn't make any difference anymore.

That morning, John woke up on the right foot. He loved those mornings because he was in a good mood. Sherlock was dead to the world, plunged into the sofa and in his thoughts, a string of newspapers piled up on the floor. John ignored him, putting the kettle on, noting the alarming lack of butter in the fridge. He thought then that he must certainly go to Tesco.

Glad to escape the idle atmosphere of the flat, John dawdled in the street, nose in the wind. He wasn't in a hurry, they had no ongoing cases, and unless, by some miracle, a criminal made the decision to commit a double murder, he had plenty of time.

He loved to go to Tesco. Despite his liking for adrenaline, he enjoyed the quietness of the shop, wandering through the departments looking for new meals, to finally and invariably return to those he usually chose. It was also one of the rare moments where he could escape the stifling mood of his equally stifling flatmate, even if he never lost the opportunity to know him gone shopping to send him a text asking him to buy detergent or, on a memorable time, canned lychees. John had never known what happened to the lychees, and he didn't want to know.

At this hour of the day, there weren't many people, but the space was occupied by a crying baby in a stroller. John couldn't repress a smile at the thought that Sherlock would have certainly grinned and listed everything he deduced about the mother to point the fact that she was a bad mother. He took a basket, starting with canned foods. Nobody paid attention to him, which he didn't complain about.

Appart from the fact that he missed their former situation, there was one thing that he never missed in the least, it was the ability of people to recognize him. This was probably one of the reasons why Sherlock never go shopping with him. More than once, he had to bear the stares of customers or passers-by, some even daring to approach to submit to him problems as boring as insignificant. Only once he had enjoyed talking with a "fan". An eight years old little boy who claimed to want to become doctor-detective later.

Then there had been the Reichenbach events, as the press had been pleased to call it, their disappearance and "resurrection". Meanwhile, interest in them had faded. Their return had been made without making a song and dance, and if journalists had still published their getaway, it hadn't brought them their lives back. The counter on John's blog wasn't as high as before, and Sherlock's mobile phone almost never rang, except when it was John calling. It happened sometimes to the latter that, without really thinking, the memory of the little boy came to resurface, and John then wondered what had happened to his sweet utopian dream.

Today, he walked around through the departments without anyone noticing him. At first, he had wondered if people deliberately avoided looking at him, or if they just didn't recognize him. Then he had gotten used to this new peace, so that now it would be being recognized that would surprise him.

He stared at the rows of cans. He thought they had eaten a lot of takeaway recently, mainly with rice and noodles. Some vegetables would certainly not hurt…

Then his mobile went off, telling him he received a text. He didn't need to check the sender, he already knew who it was.

"_Sodium bicarbonate._"

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Lestrade's life was a daily routine.

He always bought his coffee in the afternoon at the same time, at the same place. And in the evening after work, it was a beer at the same pub. John had finally succeeded in determining the quality of the day depending on the amount of beer drunk.

One pint tonight. The day must have been quiet. John watched him quietly drinking alone at his table, regularly checking his mobile phone, until a woman finally came to meet him and his face suddenly lighted up. Late thirties, in a beige trench coat, long brown hair. John immediately knew that she wasn't his wife, and he felt a surge of joy for the good DI.

John never approached Lestrade. Nor he approached his sister Harry. He had made it a tacit rule. They had gotten away from him, and John wanted to respect their decision. This didn't stop him, from time to time, to keep their tack to know what they had become.

Lestrade seemed to have aged more. His features were more marked, his hair looked a little greyer; his eyes, though still sharp, a bit off. Age, probably, not to mention worries.

While looking at him discussing almost shyly with the woman, John couldn't help but think that the DI had been very lucky. The time he spent with Sherlock around the world hadn't altered his concern for his family and friends, and more than once he had found himself browsing the internet to learn news about Lestrade.

Because of his links with Sherlock Holmes, and especially the many laws that were broken by bringing him on crime scenes, he had gone to the brink of dismissal. The only thing that had saved him had been his involvement in their arrest. John easily guessed that their "suicide" had been an opportunity for him to make amends, and his superiors had had to stick to a simple suspension. Hence perhaps his rejection on their return, motivated by the desire not to repeat the same mistake. John didn't blame him, quite the contrary. He certainly missed their old friendship and cooperation, but it had almost cost the DI everything he had.

John finished his beer in silence. Around him, people were talking animatedly. The waitress came and went from one table to another, carrying plates. The music wasn't very high, a mellow jazz that reminded John of the many drinks he had been drinking for years in this pub with Lestrade.

The latter had just gotten up, putting his coat on, while the woman did the same. Realizing that they were going out, and inevitably walk past him, John stood quietly, turned and slipped out of the pub before disappearing in the street.

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When John entered Baker Street's living room, Sherlock was lying on the sofa in his famous thinker posture. The doctor noticed the two nicotine patches on his arm: an enigma, so. Or the deepest boredom.

"You followed Lestrade again," Sherlock knew without even looking up at him.

John didn't waste time to ask him how he knew. He had gone beyond this reflex long time ago. He just assumed that Sherlock had identified the smell of alcohol, or maybe the Chinese that was just next to the pub.

He took off his jacket, hung it, and sat down in his armchair. Sherlock remained motionless on the sofa.

"Don't you want to know how he is?" John asked.

"No."

The response was immediate, and John couldn't say he was surprised.

"He's fine," the latter replied however. "I've seen him drink only one beer. He had a date. A woman came to meet him at the pub, they had conversation, and then they left together. I suppose there was a dinner planned."

But Sherlock, immersed in his mind palace, seemed completely disinterested in Lestrade's date, and John vaguely felt like a pang in his chest.

At their return, Sherlock had less suffered from rejection than him. To be denied access to crime scenes had been tough, but he gave so little importance to social relationships that his new loneliness hadn't bothered him in the least. Only Mrs. Hudson's attitude had grieved him, since she had always been a bit like a mother to them both, and he had been surprised to miss her sweet voice and her very fixed ideas on family. Towards Lestrade, at most, he had shown respect. Reverence, but limited to professional sphere. Donovan and Anderson, he only had a profound contempt for them, and they always had returned the favour. As for Mycroft, despite Mrs. Hudson's opinions, their relationship had never really been true relationships, proof had been made when Mycroft had disowned him despite all the affection he had always claimed to have for his younger brother.

Unlike John, Sherlock had no attachment, or very little. And sometimes, John found himself considering the idea that he would have wanted to be like his friend. To have the ability to detach himself from his emotions would have helped.

His thoughts then went to his sister Harry. He hadn't seen her for several days. He thought he should perhaps pay her a visit, although he already guessed that nothing would have changed since the last time. Desperately still in the same clinic, desperately still alcoholic, desperately always bloodshot eyes and face. Like the others, she didn't take his return very well, like the others, she had slammed the door in his face, yelling at him. The next day, her cleaning lady (John had also been surprised to learn that her sister had a cleaning lady) had discovered her unconscious, sunk in an alcoholic coma. And despite the doctors' efforts, nothing seemed to divert her from drinking. When they let her out, it was only to get her back few hours later, intoxicated to the roots of her hair.

"Do you still think about your degenerate sister?" Then Sherlock's voice spoke, pulling him out from his thoughts.

John didn't jump at these words. He had always known Sherlock's scepticism toward his sister. And "scepticism" was a euphemism. He had always doubted Harry's abilities to give up drinking, and he had never hidden his disappointment at seeing John persist in picking up the pieces. For him, she didn't deserve the sacrifices that her brother made for her, nor John deserved to bear the dead weight she was.

"I haven't seen her since the last time," John said.

Sherlock had finally left his mind palace and had turned his head towards him.

"I never understood why you persisted in seeing them," he confessed.

"Harry is my sister, Sherlock, and Lestrade was the man from whom you had cases that were worth it. You might have major gaps in social relationships, but it's not a reason to pretend they never existed."

Sherlock turned his head and sighed, shaking his hand absently.

"We don't need them," he stated simply. "We're doing fine without their help."

That made John laugh.

"Really?" he hissed bitterly. "It's been weeks since you turn around in the flat complaining you don't have a case, so don't tell me that we're doing fine. If you could have kept a low profile and worked things out so at least you keep in touch with Lestrade, or at least Mycroft, we wouldn't get nothing for your trouble."

Sherlock turned his head back to him and sat up.

"And why would it have been for me to keep in touch? Lestrade was more your friend than mine, wasn't he?"

"This is the problem," John explained learnedly. "I was just a friend. You, you were a colleague. When it was about a case, he came to you, not me. I'm not an investigator, receiving the cases wasn't my responsibility. I'm a doctor, Sherlock, my professional relationships were limited to the medical community. And unless you wanted to investigate the origin of a flu or tetanus, I don't see what I could do more."

A silence fell over the room, and John rubbed his tired eyes wearily. They had had this conversation so many times… The worst thing was that they were both right. On one hand, they could have tried to fight a bit, tried to patch things up. On the other hand, if their relatives had felt the desire not to see them anymore, who were they not to accept it?

John finally stood. The first time, they had tried to defend themselves in every ways possible. Sherlock had even lowered himself to accept the most trivial cases, but the decision of their relatives had been final and binding. They had dropped the matter, but it was mostly because they had no other choice. Until the day when Sherlock, unable to sit idly, had mobilized all his skills and had hacked Lestrade's computer. And they had found themselves infiltrating crime scenes on the quiet. Sometimes it worked, sometimes much less.

John suppressed a yawn, digging the memory deep in his memory. It was useless to dwell on the past. What was done was done.

"I'm going to bed," he said.

And he went up to his bedroom.

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	6. Chapter 6

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**Note:** Sorry for the double alert, no, there isn't a double chapter, I just realised I hadn't published the right one. XD

A pretty short chapter, not really explicative of the plot, I must admit, but I promise it'll start to make sense in two chapters...

Not britpicked, but I did what I could... Don't hesitate to point out any mistake if you see one.

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**Chapter 6**

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For a change, the announcement of a new case fell in the middle of the afternoon.

John was visiting the British Museum, because he hadn't been there in a long time and because he wanted to change from the ordinary. He was strolling in front of a interminable lions hunting when his text alert went off. John walked quickly away in a corner, and then took out his mobile phone.

"_Peckham. Murder. Probably a robbery gone badly._"

John looked up and looked around. A mother pushing a stroller in front of her while a little boy was ecstatic, saying it was like in grandmother's book, a bunch of friends, few couples. It was impossible to make a call and discuss about a crime scene in those conditions. So he sent a text message:

"_Meeting there? _"

The answer came immediately:

"_Baker Street. We'll go together._"

John then pocketed his phone and headed for the exit, thinking that he would go into raptures over the Rosetta Stone another time. He left the museum, took long strides towards Tottenham Court Road, and hailed a cab.

Fortunately, he wasn't far from Baker Street. The cab brought him there quickly, and when he reached his destination, John saw Sherlock waiting on the pavement. He opened the car door and sat down, giving the address to the driver.

"When did you get the information?" John asked when the cab was goingthrough Piccadilly Circus.

"I just intercepted the radio call when I texted you."

John nodded to signal that he had understood.

It was new, the radio, and Sherlock had long wondered why he hadn't had the idea before. He had received it from the Greenwich case dealer, a small gift in exchange of their silence on his traffic. Sherlock had tuned it on the police frequency, and could therefore learn about new cases in time.

Sherlock vibrated with excitement on the cab seat, and John knew why. To his knowledge, Sherlock had never dealt with this part of London. John, for his part, knew of the area what he had seen in _Doctor Who_, which was far from being an absolute reference.

Peckham was a district that John had always considered, at least as far as he knew, as strange. Ambivalent was a more accurate term. Both lousy and modern, made up of run-down areas and brand new homes, populated by street gangs and artists.

The burglary had taken place in North Peckham Estate, a rehabilitated area with its rows of small uniform houses. The cab drove along a playground, and soon turned right. A glimmer of light was shining in the distance and Sherlock asked the driver to stop. He handed him a note, inviting him to keep the change, and then got out of the vehicle, buttoning up his coat to make himself less recognizable.

Advancing towards the gathering of police cars, John looked up at the surrounding houses. Many neighbours were at their windows, he even saw some filming or taking pictures with their mobile phones. His shoulders tensed thinking he would have liked to have come without this kind of audience. He feared to be recognized on an amateur photo, it would only lead them into trouble and lose unnecessary time. And the risk was even greater since they were in the middle of the day.

Sherlock also seemed to have the same opinion as he slipped into an alley and jumped over a wall. From this side of the building, there were just few onlookers. He quietly approached the scene, hands in his pockets, with the nonchalant attitude of a resident of the neighbourhood. A small gathering began to grow outside the police line, nobody paid attention to them.

Sherlock immediately looked at the policemen, seeking an opening. John began to think that for convenience, obtaining uniform was becoming a fiercely conceivable option, which would certainly not displease Sherlock, who loved outfits.

The number of agents outside then diminished, many of them having been called into the building. Sherlock seeing there a unique opportunity, he split the row of onlookers in front of him and slipped under the security tape. John soon followed, holding an annoyed exclamation which would have betrayed them, and immediately took out his notebook to play his part.

Sherlock didn't waste time arguing with the officer who tried to intercept them. He quickly showed him his "police card" and eagerly asked if the victim's body was still inside. Staggered by his confidence, the agent didn't try to call his sincerity into question and spontaneously revealed that the body hadn't been taken yet. At these words, Sherlock turned away from him and went unceremoniously into the building. John followed after thanking the policeman.

"You know, Sherlock," he encouraged as they walked down the hallway, "Saying thank you, from time to time, would be nice."

Sherlock didn't answer, focused on emergency exits locations. He noted the number of officers on the scene, the movements. They were about ten, including forensics. The crime scene was going to be a piece of cake. He already started listing the first elements he had: broken door, a kitchen knife in the chest. A neighbour said he had bumped into the victim when she returned from shopping. Obviously, she must have caught her burglar, who had panicked. Child's play.

Finding the aggressor, however, would be more difficult, and that was the riddle Sherlock wanted to focus on.

"Sherlock…"

John's voice immediately interrupted his optimistic thoughts and he stopped. He knew that tone, it was the one he used to warn him of a danger.

Sherlock then looked up at the door of the flat to which they were heading. Two officers entered it. And on the doorway, hands on his hips listening to Sally Donovan's preliminary comments, was standing Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Sherlock suddenly became pale and sought for immediate withdrawal. He caught sight of an emergency exit, walked toward it, opened the little door and took refuge in the deserted staircase, John on his heels.

The door snapped shut behind them, and they stood motionless, silent, listening attentively for the noises from the hallway. Footsteps came toward the door and walked away, but nobody came after them. Apparently, no agent had noticed them, which was a chance.

"I wasn't expecting that it would be Lestrade on the case!" Sherlock hissed between his teeth. "It'll make things more complicated."

He went back to the door and gently half-opened it, then immediately closed it to let pass new footsteps. They went away, and Sherlock opened again.

"Lestrade is gone," he announced. "Donovan is still at the door, so I think he must be in the flat."

John finally closed his small notebook and buried his hands in his jacket pockets. He incongruously thought about the British Museum he left for a case that seemed already pretty much jeopardized. If this was indeed Lestrade on it, there might be a lot more people to recognize them if they ventured on the crime scene.

"It's great," he quipped then, "But if his team is on it, how are we going to proceed? With Dimmock, it was still feasible in his absence, but now…"

But he stopped when he heard Sherlock's voice swearing between his teeth.

"No! No! No!"

"Sherlock?"

He immediately closed the door, jaws clenched, looking quite upset. John frowned, alarmed.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

"They're taking the body away! Morons!"

John's shoulders fell. On the other side of the door, a new tramp of feet rose to disappear, followed by Lestrade's voice in the hallway:

"Tell forensics that I want their report as soon as possible!"

Dejection fell on John and Sherlock's shoulders. Without opportunity to take a look at the body, with Lestrade who supervised the crime scene, the investigation would be a little more complicated. But there was nothing they could do against procedures.

To hide his embarrassment, Sherlock half-opened the door again, but John knew that there was no hope in the immediate future. Maybe they could wait for the agents to leave, take advantage of the night to break into the flat.

"What do we do now?" John asked while Sherlock had just closed the door.

But he had no time to get an answer. Voices came, and the door opened suddenly. John and Sherlock found themselves face to face with two agents about to check the access.

"What are you doing here?" One of them wanted to know. "Civilians are not allowed on the crime scene!"

John didn't give Sherlock time to answer that they weren't technically on the crime scene. The victim's body gone, Lestrade in charge of the investigation, he was aware that it was ruined for the moment, that claiming to be investigators would be pointless. So he grabbed Sherlock by the arm and led him fleeing down the stairs.

"Hey, wait! Stop!"

Sherlock had always found this injunction ridiculous. As if they expected them to obey. John and he ran down the stairs, hearing the two agents running after them. One of them spoke into his walkie-talkie:

"Note two suspects in the fire escape, they are at the…"

Sherlock didn't waste time listening to them. If they didn't change of plan now, they would be caught like greenhorns. Reaching the first floor, they left the fire escape and rushed into the corridor. Residents were out of their homes, watching the police come and go. Some looked at them running down the stairs leading to the exit in the back of the building.

Fortunately, most of the agents were focused on the main exit. There was still the one who had stopped them at their arrival, and two others, but they didn't have the reflex to react in time. John and Sherlock got over the security tape, hustled some curious, and fled.

They were laughing out loud.

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	7. Chapter 7

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**Chapter 7**

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Given the resounding failure that had been Peckham, John and Sherlock decided by mutual agreement that it had become risky or even impossible to continue the investigation. With a heavy heart, Sherlock finally put away the file in his mind palace, letting the dust cover it. He didn't forget, however, to follow the progress on Lestrade's computer, which for him was a small consolation.

They stayed for a week without a case, at least Sherlock managed to stay a week without a case before his underemployed brain might come to claim a distraction by all its neurons. Much to John's dismay, he turned on the police radio again, hoping for an interesting mystery.

There had been a homicide, which Sherlock proved to be an accident in a few hours, then a burglary, which he resolved just as quickly. And a jewellery theft, which turned out to be an insurance fraud, and a new fatal burglary. Sherlock never resolved this latest case, the culprit having given himself up to the police, which made John laugh out loud. And all of this in few days.

And then there was this call for a homicide, suddenly in the middle of the day. A woman had heard her neighbours having a heated argument and then a thud. Few minutes later, she had heard the flat's door open and someone run away. The woman, wanting to make sure that everything was fine, had gone at her neighbours' home, whose door was found to be left open, to find the wife's body on the living room floor.

Refusing to be fussy, Sherlock jumped at the chance. But following the example of the Peckham case's disaster, he had also called on the utmost caution, what John considered as a first. However, understanding the rationale for the reflection, he had prepared his things for a night out.

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The cab that took them to the crime scene stank of tobacco, and Sherlock had to remember not to point at his incipient lung cancer. John watched the streets pass by the window, silent. As a precaution, they didn't speak anymore about a case in public, let alone in a cab, by fear that too attentive ears might hear their conversation.

The crime scene was in a building in Ilford, near North Circular Road. Sherlock appreciated the quiet neighbourhood, pledge of peace, but the accommodation pleased him less: he preferred individual houses, easier to infiltrate, to buildings where chances of meeting a neighbour were bigger.

Entering the building was child's play, Sherlock just had to pick the lock of the emergency door. Then he and John edged quickly their way into the staircase, with the attitude of tenants returning home. It was the only advantage of this kind of residence: tenants were so many that the probability of meeting someone who knew everyone there was almost nil. They rang for the lift and then went up to the sixth level.

The floor was quiet and all-purpose. Only a door let out music. John listened absently, recognizing Billie Holiday.

"It's here," Sherlock's voice then came.

He was standing before a door barred by the recognizable blue police tape. Pulling a kit out of his pocket, he pulled out a pair of picklocks and sank on a knee. A minute later, the latch opened and the door revolved. Sherlock put his equipment away, pushed the door open, and slipping between the tape stretched across the opening, he edged his way into the flat.

Forensics had already worked on the crime scene, but Sherlock had come to know how to manage. Surfaces were covered with fingerprints powder, markings indicated the presence of a footprint or drops of blood, a white outline showed the location and posture of the victim's body who had been there.

John looked around the motionless housing. Except furniture and objects that the Met had worked on, the rest of the flat was left unchanged.

"So, what do we know about the case?" he finally asked.

"Quarrel couple, at least according to the neighbour who heard their argument. Then she perceived what she identified as the sound of a thud and a few minutes later, a flight in the hallway. She found the victim's body here, wanting to see if everything was okay."

"So, nosey neighbours can be useful, sometimes," John philosophized.

Sherlock didn't answer, already looking at the dried blood on the corner of the table. From the very first elements of the case, the victim had the back of her head smashed in after a violent blow against a hard angle. The cause of death was beyond any doubt, but what interested Sherlock was to know the circumstances of death, and especially what could help him to find the under suspicion husband who resolutely couldn't be found.

John walked around the flat to ensure that there was no other focus. He picked up traces of investigation in the kitchen, noticed markers that indicated the kitchen utensils that were found there and many fingerprints again.

"There has been ructions in the kitchen," he informed Sherlock before taking the direction of the bedroom.

The room was more or less orderly, and seemed to have been favoured by many investigators. The bed was briefly made, the blanket just pulled on the pillows. A pile of clothes was put on a chair, the desk along the wall. John guessed by spaces in the dust that it had supported a computer, which would certainly be between the hands of Scotland Yard's experts. Pulling a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, he opened the closet, but he got nothing special out of it, except that the person in charge of the dirty linens had gaps in ironing. The bathroom didn't tell him anything more, typical of a couple, with its profusion of women's products. Nothing seemed to have been moved from the room.

He returned to the living room, where Sherlock had already begun to collect clues in various Petri dishes.

"The biggest clues about the death appear to be gathered in the living room and the kitchen," John announced. "There's no sign of a struggle in the bedroom and the bathroom. The experts took the computer, but there is nothing more. I guess you still wish to have a look, in case you discover that one of them had an affair or something like that."

John had said that last sentence with a half-smile. Because if there was one thing in which Sherlock was strong, it was to discover vital information in the at first sight most insignificant clues.

He rose, closing his magnifying glass with a small sharp gesture, then took charge of the kitchen. He scanned the room with a wide gaze, lingering on the marks left by the investigators.

"The fight started here," he concluded then.

John scanned the room too.

"How can you tell?"

Many fingerprints stained the worktop where trailed remains of vegetables: one of the protagonists was cooking. A knife was missing from the block just at hand, it must certainly be in the Yard's lab. Sherlock made a note that he would have to check in the file who had it in hand. The floor was covered by pulp scattered by footprints. So someone was cooking when the argument had started. During the quarrel, vegetables on the cutting board had fallen to the ground – no, had been brushed aside from the cutting board, judging by the uniform traces they had left there. Sherlock noticed in the rough plastic two hairs that had to belong to a male arm.

"It was the victim who cooked," he said, emphasizing his words with gestures. "And the husband, under the influence of an anger whose reason is still unknown, brushed aside the vegetables, spreading them on the floor, and the couple, in their exchange, has stamped on them without noticing."

Sherlock noted, in the juice left by a tomato, the very narrow imprint of a stiletto heel. This information made him wince a little. Who cooked in stilettos?

Following the footprints, Sherlock found himself in front of the fridge, also covered with fingerprint powder. The steel grey door was smashed in, but the sinking was too pointed and not deep enough to belong to a skull or a fist. Elbow maybe. He looked at the top of the fridge and noticed an overturned small decorative vase. A gap in the dust made him understand that it hadn't been overthrown a long time ago. So someone had toppled over the fridge, with enough force to overthrow the vase that was on it. And this person had thrown his elbow back to absorb the shock. Sherlock took a new note to remember to check the victim's elbow in the autopsy report.

John, who had followed the statement without saying a word, ventured to ask a question:

"Okay, but what makes you say the argument started in the kitchen? It could have started in the living room."

But Sherlock pointed to the carpet under the coffee table. The strands were clearly soiled by residues of vegetables that the couple had stamped in the kitchen.

"Okay," John summed up. "So the victim is in the kitchen, presumably cooking… And what? The husband suddenly gets angry and smashes her skull against the table? It doesn't make any sense."

Said like that, no, it didn't make any sense. But the footprints in the kitchen indicated that there had been fighting: the victim defended herself. A case of domestic violence, perhaps, although this scenario was challenged by the shoes of the victim. Stilettos weren't usually the prerogative of battered women.

Sherlock stood up and took the direction of the bedroom. He quickly went around, also opening the closet, noticed the badly ironed clothes too. Then he went into the bathroom, his gaze passed over the multitude of beauty products.

"Our problem," he admitted, "Is that we don't know the circumstances of the argument. The neglected state of the wardrobe and the quality of some beauty products don't describe a patriarchal model. So this is not a case of domestic abuse."

He returned to the living room and looked around.

"We know how the events took place, but it's impossible to determine the cause…"

"Did the victim have a diary, or a PDA?" John asked. "It could teach us things."

"It's already in the hands of the Met," Sherlock sighed bitterly. "All that are diaries, computers, and telephone books has been seized, and the file doesn't mention where the husband works."

John raised a sarcastic eyebrow.

"Are you serious?" he quipped.

"What?"

John dropped his shoulders and looked up at the sky.

"You're lucky that I spend my time on the computer, and on anything else other than the Yard database. We have their names, no?"

He turned to the flat's door, beckoning Sherlock to follow him.

"You'll see," he promised with a smile, "The incredible number of things we can learn about people on the internet."

He walked around the table, taking the direction of the exit. But at this moment, the door swung open, and the light of an electric torch blinded him. He turned instinctively, protecting his face with his arm.

"What are you doing here?" a voice called out dryly. "Don't move and hands up!"

A policeman. John stifled a curse between his teeth, but in the end, it wasn't as surprising as that. After their raid at Peckham, the Yard had certainly had taken action. They must have placed a security officer, in case these intrusions phenomena recurred.

His body reacted before his brain. He lunged forward, suddenly. The officer, who was speaking in his walkie-talkie, not really had time to react. John crashed in his stomach, cutting off his breath and swinging him to the ground. Grabbing the electric torch, he hit his neck, making him lose consciousness.

John and Sherlock froze in the hallway, attentive to the slightest noise. Then they heard movement in one of the nearby flats, followed by the crack of a lock being opened. Immediately, they fled down the hall, where the fire escape was. They rushed down the stairs, almost broke open the exit door, and fled down the street.

Sherlock immediately looked around in search of the police vehicle, but didn't see it. He then rushed to the side of the road in search of a cab. But at this hour, in this area, there was little chance of finding one. Cars passed in the street, ignoring the man in the long black coat that stamped with impatience on the kerb.

John, who had put on a further look around, finally came to him and put his hand on his arm to calm him.

"Come on," he said, "There is a station not far, perhaps we will have more chances there."

Then he ran along the pavement, Sherlock on his heels. They soon arrived in a commercial area, aligned with various shops, and finally saw the red and white logo. As John had assumed, some cabs were there, waiting for the proverbial night owl. Sherlock immediately hailed one that stopped at their height. They quickly went in, gave the driver the address of Baker Street, and the car moved off.

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**Notes:** shit will start to get real next chapter. Be prepared to brace yourself.

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	8. Chapter 8

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**Chapter 8**

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They reached Baker Street extremely tense. Even after closing the reassuring blue door behind them, they couldn't help but say that it had been very close. The light wasn't on in the flat and the policeman's electric torch was too powerful so he couldn't distinguish anything at all. Sherlock doubted the officer had been able to recognize them, but John wasn't that confident. To infiltrate crime scenes would now become increasingly difficult.

He nimbly climbed up the stairs, straight to his bedroom.

"Never again, Sherlock," he decreed then. "Never again. Next time, we'll do as I have suggested, we borrow uniforms. You love outfits, you'll get it."

"John."

"What?"

He turned around to see Sherlock standing on the doorstep of the living room, looking at him. He frowned, then, puzzled by the look a little tense of the detective, he came down. Sherlock was straight, stiff and frozen. John followed his gaze and a shiver of alarm immediately ran along his back.

Lestrade.

He was sitting in Sherlock's armchair, patient. John furtively thought about the drug bust in "The Study in Pink", where the DI was found waiting for them in this same armchair. He looked around, half expecting other members of the team to emerge from nowhere. But the quietness in the flat made him understand that Lestrade had come alone, and the atmosphere that emanated from the officer's presence was radically different from the one during the drug bust. Lestrade's casual attitude had given way to a palpable tension. Crossed legs had given way to the elbows on his knees. The look he put on Sherlock and John had no triumph overtones anymore, but was mixed with a sort of tender sadness.

"Lestrade," Sherlock greeted without any salutation.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said with a nod. "John."

He didn't answer, very tense. It was long since he hadn't seen the DI face-to-face, and the emotion he felt was very different from when he watched him in the pub.

There was a deep silence.

"What do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked as to break the ice. "You're going to handcuff us for interfering on your crime scene?"

Lestrade sat up and leaned back in the armchair. There was nothing in his eyes but an intense melancholy.

Then he let out a breath he seemed to hold for a long time. He rubbed his tired face.

"No," he replied then. "I'm not here for that."

"In this case, if it's to give us a warning, be aware that you have all the reasons to believe we won't follow it."

But Lestrade didn't seem to hear him. He looked at John and Sherlock, intrigued and sad in the same time.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

His question took them by surprise. They exchanged glances, not sure of the answer to give.

The DI seemed to have aged ten years. His hair was greyer than usual, his features more marked. His shoulders seemed to sag under the weight of age and worries. He seemed much more tired than the last time John had seen him.

He moved forward.

"Is something wrong, Greg?"

He looked at him.

"Why are you here?" he repeated. "You shouldn't be there."

"You know Sherlock. Refusing him a case is like refusing a bone to a dog. But we can promise you that we didn't interfere. Well, yes… in a way."

"Thanks for the comparison," Sherlock hissed.

He had detailed Lestrade in few glances. Not shaved cheeks, costume not changed for two days, the bags of a man who hadn't slept under the eyes, drops of coffee on the shirt. Lestrade was edgy, he was barely standing, seemed about to break down from one second to another.

"Something is bothering you," Sherlock analyzed. "And it has nothing to do with our interferences in your cases, in which case you would have said it. This is more vicious, more elusive. Has Donovan taken you for a ride about me again?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind at the last moment. He looked again, silent. Then he seemed to take a decision and stood up. His movements had something stiff.

"Come with me," he said then. "I think I have to show you something."

John felt Sherlock tighten.

"If it's a ruse to bust us at Scotland Yard," hissed the latter, "I am sorry, but it doesn't work with me."

"It has nothing to do with the Yard," said Lestrade.

His answer was so clear and so spontaneous that even Sherlock didn't wasted time to question it. He looked at the DI, a concerned fold on his forehead, but consented to follow him.

They left Baker Street. At the door, a car was parked. Lestrade opened the door and gestured in their direction.

"Get in."

Hands in his pockets, Sherlock looked at him suspiciously, and then finally got into the vehicle. John followed shortly, not sure of what Lestrade intended to show them. His tired attitude had all aspects of incredible tension. Had they made a mistake somewhere?

The journey was made in silence. John looked the streets pass through without noticing. Then a building caught his attention, and he then understood the direction they were taking.

"What? Greg…"

"We're almost there, John."

The DI's voice was soft, but didn't leave room for negotiation.

They got out of the car and Lestrade led the march. John and Sherlock followed, puzzled. They entered, advanced without a word, Lestrade still ahead. Then he finally stopped, pulled away and turned toward them.

"So, now?" He asked.

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**Notes:** change of warning next chapter...

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	9. Chapter 9

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**Notes:** WARNING ON

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**Chapter 9**

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John and Sherlock looked at him without understanding, but Lestrade nodded his head, encouraging them to turn their eyes.

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**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

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**JOHN H. WATSON**

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Under a quiet tree, two gravestones were facing them.

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**Notes:** okay, I really would have wanted not to publish this bloody chapter on a day like this... Happy new year, of course. Well, happy new year anyway, huh? Please, don't kill me... *hide under the table and throw confettis to coax you*

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	10. Chapter 10

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**Notes:** We finally start to see the light!

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**Chapter 10**

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Lestrade hadn't believed his eyes when he had seen the CCTV video. Donovan had knocked on his office door before entering. He had immediately noticed her extremely pale face and livid lips. She had announced in a toneless voice that they had a video capture of two intruders caught by the caretaker in a flat in Peckham and he should absolutely see this. Worried by her attitude, all the more since home invasion wasn't really their division, he had slipped the DVD into the player, seeing on the screen a section of a street. Then the shock had cut his legs and he had fallen back in his chair, struck by emotion. The screen had suddenly been crossed at a run by two hilarious men he had identified in the second. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Initially, he had believed in a hoax. An obscure editing or very good lookalikes. But Donovan's reaction already excluded those first hypotheses. He had played the sequence once, twice, a hundred times. Each time, the same faces appeared on the screen. He had buried his face in his hands, unable to believe what he was seeing. Haggard, he had rushed to the Diogenes Club to show the video to Mycroft. And despite all his composure, he had been unable to hide the pallor that had come over his face. He had sat in his chair, nervously turning the handle of his umbrella in his feverish fingers. Lestrade hadn't added anything, except that he would investigate this mystery and he would inform him in case of further news. He later had gone to the cemetery, but the two gravestones were still there. A ball had grabbed his womb, like a punch. He hadn't understood. How? And why? He hadn't slept that night, alternating between coffees and glasses of whiskey. Then, the next day, after hours without answer, he had finally gotten up from his armchair and put on his jacket. He already knew where to go. So he had gone to Baker Street, and had waited.

Standing next to the gravestones, he looked at John and Sherlock who looked at the stones with indecipherable expressions.

"Now I'll repeat my question: why are you here?"

They turned their heads towards him. Lestrade felt them on the defensive. Sherlock and John exchanged a glance.

The DI watched them interact, not sure how to interpret it. The presence of these graves seemed to be familiar to them as well as make them uncomfortable. Then Sherlock turned to him, his neck a bit stiff.

"What do you want?" He asked.

The question took Lestrade by surprise.

"Me? Nothing. Just, I mean…"

He watched them, silently standing before him.

"Just… Why are you here?"

"Is our presence a problem?"

The DI shook his hands in defence.

"No! Not at all. It's just that…"

Sherlock turned away from him to look at the black marble stone bearing his name.

Lestrade scratched the back of his head.

"Listen, I don't know how it must be said in these circumstances, but… You're dead."

"It seems obvious," Sherlock replied coldly.

"No, it's not!" Then Lestrade became enraged. "Sherlock, I saw your body in pieces in the morgue of St Barts. It's me who identified you because neither John nor Mycroft were capable of it. And you, John, it's me who rushed to Baker Street because we had heard a shot, and found you with the skull smashed in the living room. It's this poor Molly who had to do your autopsies. You are dead, the two of you, so now you tell me why you're here."

John's shoulders slumped.

"It's exactly as I said, Greg. Refusing Sherlock cases is like refusing a bone to a dog. You know him, he can't live without his little adrenaline rush."

"Adrenaline is rather your area, John," Sherlock corrected him.

But John silenced him with a gesture. He felt by Lestrade's trembling shoulders that it wasn't the right time for jokes. He put his hands in his pockets.

"What do you want to know, Greg?" he asked softly.

The DI's face was dug by tiredness and emotion.

"How…?" He began. "Why…"

"It's because of me," Sherlock replied then.

Lestrade looked up at him, but Sherlock didn't bat an eyelash.

"The incident at St Barts wasn't supposed to end like that," he explained. "The plan was to _fake_ my suicide. This way, I would have had free reign. But it didn't happen as planned."

He moved his shoulders, as if to untie them.

"Moriarty had warned me before committing suicide himself that if I didn't die, killers would kill you, Lestrade, and John and Mrs. Hudson. But I was ahead on him. I knew he would have this requirement, and I had prepared everything, even the rubber ball under my armpit to stop the pulse in my wrist, because I knew that John would try to take my pulse. An old doctor's reflex."

Sherlock put his hands in his coat pockets.

"Unfortunately, I miscalculated my move. And the medical team that was in on it, and was instructed to make my body disappear in the hospital, ended up trying to revive me. They couldn't save me. What was meant to be a simple staging turned into a monstrous reality. A simple miscalculation and everything has fallen in the water."

Lestrade listened silently, his mouth open.

"So…," he stammered, "The suicide shouldn't have been one?"

"Ironic, isn't it? The worst thing is that I didn't realize it right away."

The shadow of a smile seemed to drift on his lips.

"This is Molly's reaction that put a bug in my ear. She was in on it. Her role was to ensure the cooperation of the hospital services, as well as falsify the autopsy reports. But when I saw her, she was devastated. I didn't understand why until I realised she couldn't see me. I went through all St Barts without anyone noticing my presence, until I found myself facing my own body at the morgue. I must admit that it was a shock. I attended my own funeral."

Lestrade interrupted his narrative with a hand gesture.

"But… There is something I don't understand. Sherlock, you say that your death was necessary to save us. But wouldn't it have seemed strange that you just reappeared then?"

"The reason why it wasn't expected to reappear soon after."

Sherlock looked Lestrade gently.

"Moriarty's network was vast, it had offshoots in the whole world. The idea was to take advantage of my death to track down this network, and reappear once all danger would have been averted. But my death has disrupted the plan. I found myself facing an unexpected situation for which I had no solution."

"Then he looked after me," John intervened.

"John was the only person to whom I could go to, but it took me a lot of time and energy to finally make him notice my presence."

John smiled at the memory.

"Initially, it was banging doors, objects that moved on their own," he told Lestrade. "I thought my mind was playing tricks on me and I was going crazy."

"And then one day," Sherlock continued, "By interacting, I had the strength to start to appear to him."

The two men laughed at the memory.

"I thought I was hallucinating," John laughed. "But I didn't drink anything before."

"This is the reason why I chose this time, John. It's precisely to avoid that you have this kind of thinking."

The euphoria seemed to fade suddenly, their faces leaving place to a sweet nostalgia.

"Again," Sherlock said, "It still took me some time to contact him. But when I finally came to be seen and heard, I told him the events at St. Barts. That it was to save him, but it wasn't supposed to take this shape."

"I admit it had been difficult to believe him," John revealed. "But Sherlock has applied himself to list my recent activities to prove that he was indeed there. He told me he was going on a crusade against Moriarty's network. That things weren't planned like that, but he could take advantage of his state to do them well. He was dead, so he couldn't die, and he had gained enough… sturdiness, let's say, to be able to physically intervene."

"This is where John took me by surprise," Sherlock grumbled bitterly.

"What?" John protested. "You're not going to say that you regret it?"

Lestrade realized.

"This is why…?" He guessed.

John nodded.

"I told Sherlock to wait for me, that I came with him. I took my gun on the mantelpiece and I didn't hesitate a second."

A silence fell. A breeze of wind blew, carrying an armful of dead leaves.

"I didn't see it coming," Sherlock admitted. "I must say that I was far from suspecting that John could keep his weapon close in case he wanted to be done with it. So when he acted, I didn't immediately understand. Then I saw the gun, and time to react, it was too late."

Lestrade nodded. He knew the rest. Mrs. Hudson's frantic call, muttering incomprehensible sentences, just managing to string two words together: "_John! He…_"

"However," Sherlock continued again, "It took him a little time to come back."

"Ah, you're funny!" John defended himself. "It was the first time I died."

"Me too, what do you think?"

"Yes, but your own death took you by surprise. So much you're not even gone. Me, the process has gone a bit more normally, so naturally, it took me time to recover."

"And you never regretted doing it?" Lestrade wanted to know.

John shook his head.

"Strangely, no. I mean… Nothing was keeping me there anymore. Yes, there were Mrs. Hudson and Harry, and I admit I thought about the pain it had caused them, but… Sherlock needed me. Oh, he'll gladly tell you otherwise. But it seemed so obvious to me that I didn't even think about it. Sometimes, it's true, I found myself thinking about my old life. The cases, the blog, and all that. But saying that I regret… No."

"So, finally, you both have tracked down Moriarty's network?

"Absolutely," Sherlock stated. "It took us two years. The advantage when you are in our situation is that we can stow away anywhere. It has greatly facilitated our transport."

"And nobody has ever seen you? I see you, though."

"Let's say we had acquired the ability to make us a little less visible if necessary. For example, one of Moriarty's men was close to a top African leader, we sat with them in the jet and we eliminated him during the flight. Nobody will ever understand what could happen to him."

Lestrade stifled a giggle.

"Yeah, let me tell you that it's an ability that really should be reworked."

John made a face.

"That was our big problem after a moment," he admitted. "Let's say that our willingness to resume our lives has had the effect of making us a little too visible. Now disappearing is almost impossible."

"And you complain?" Lestrade wondered.

"For crime scenes, yes, it's crippling."

"What sold us?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"A CCTV camera in Peckham. That was a little more than a week ago."

"The Peckham case? Yet we took care to go through streets we knew without supervision."

"In this case, Sherlock, your knowledge was outdated. The camera that filmed you was relatively recent."

Sherlock turned his head sharply gritting his teeth, holding a curse.

"That explains the state of your clothes," he understood. "This must have been quite a shock."

"You have no idea."

"Who else saw it?"

"Besides the officer who found the sequence, there were Donovan, me, and I showed it to Mycroft. It gave the poor sod one hell of a shock."

"I would have wanted to see that."

"It's not funny, Sherlock. Seeing the ghost of his own brother on a video is not fun."

"Did he say anything?"

"No. I don't think he has had neither the strength nor the courage."

Another silence fell. The moon gently floated over some fluffy clouds. A new breeze blew on the branches of the tree under which they were. Lestrade turned his head toward the gravestones. Despite the time, they were still well maintained. The DI guessed that Mycroft had to be for something. Sherlock's black marble stone was carefully polished, so does John's light brown one. Only the flowers needed to be changed, dried and shrivelled by time.

"I didn't come here as often as I wanted," he confessed. "I must say that I struggled to face myself for a long time. And meanwhile, you were wandering around to save my arse. Who would have thought?"

He pulled his hands out of his pockets.

"Have you succeeded, at least? Your vendetta."

"Yes."

"And now?"

"Now consider our work as a homecoming. We solve crimes, I blog about it, and it happens he forgets his pants. Sherlock hacks your files, makes his deductions and sends his conclusions. I admit that it's not very legal, but what else do you want us to do?"

Lestrade had had a split second of surprise at the pants anecdote, but finally frowned. Something was wrong with what John had said.

_I blog about it_. John's blog, his famous blog read by thousands of fans, in which he published their cases. It no longer existed. Flooded by a wave of hateful comments after his suicide, his sister Harriet had felt it was better to close it down. So she had deleted it permanently, burying the last living trace of his brother.

And the conclusions Sherlock sent him. Lestrade was perhaps stupid according to sherlockians standards, but not enough not to notice emails from a sender like Sherlock. Never, ever, did he remember having received the conclusions John was talking about.

The DI then understood everything.

_Consider our business as a homecoming_. John and Sherlock didn't return to restart a new life. They returned to take back their life as they left it, that is to say surrounded by bric-a-brac, experiments, discoursing on cases. As if the last three years had never happened.

He vaguely thought back about this film he had seen in a fit of blues. A kid who saw ghosts and everyone thought crazy. A quote, in particular, had made a deep impression on him.

_They only see what they want to see._

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**Notes:** As the epilogue is really tiny, it will be published in the wake of the next chapter. So you'll have two publications for the price of one!

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	11. Chapter 11

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**Notes:** the last chapter but one! Make sure you read this one first!

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**Chapter 11**

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Lestrade immediately felt a pang in his chest. In his head, winded on at full speed all the mysterious cases of intrusion spread since months in the Yard's corridors. Had John and Sherlock really done all of this ignoring that…?

That didn't make any sense. How, knowing themselves dead, could they still believe that…?

_Oh._

Seeing John's poor smile before his obvious thoughts, the DI fell silent, under shock.

Of course they knew. They were dead, what else could they expect? They knew that the blog no longer existed, they knew that Sherlock's mails never reached Lestrade. They knew that their belongings had been moved, that all they could own had been gotten back by their families. They knew that Mrs. Hudson had abandoned the place, gone to find comfort with her sister, unable to stay any longer in Baker Street.

They knew that the cases on which they said they were working on never existed. They knew that the crime scenes were fake, that the law enforcement agents they fled from weren't even there.

It was just… They played at make-believe. When they had returned to Baker Street and they found themselves facing the harsh reality of their situation, they had simply chosen the easy way out: they had simply denied it, imagining instead a scenario and decor they had come to believe wholeheartedly. Baker Street had become again the joyful mess they had always known, as if nothing had happened.

Lestrade paused momentarily. He could understand this choice, claiming to have acted differently would have been lying. But wasn't it lying to oneself that to convince oneself of a story that one had never lived? John and Sherlock had come to persuade themselves of a past and a present that didn't exist, for the simple reason that their condition didn't fit well with the situation.

He swallowed his saliva, uncomfortable. He knew what he had to say. He didn't know whether to say it, but he should. And he was aware that his next words were going to be full of meaning.

"And you never… considered…? I mean…"

He bit his lip.

"Moriarty's network has been defeated, if you are to be believed. What I mean is that…"

He scratched his neck.

"Damn," he swore to himself, "I'm really not made for that."

"Made for what?"

"Dammit, Sherlock, I'm an agent of the Yard, not a bloody psychologist! But Sherlock… John… You never considered to… rest in peace?"

The fraction of a second later, he thought his comment would be misinterpreted and immediately protested:

"I mean… It's not that… But… normally shouldn't you rest in peace…? It isn't what the dead do, usually?

"Rest in peace? Enough to bore you to death. No pun intended."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Sherlock, do you only understand what I'm saying?"

He looked at them, silent and motionless.

"What I'm saying is that the dead are supposed to be dead. They are supposed to be in heaven or hell, whatever, but it's not their role to evolve among the living. Well, as far as I know."

Sherlock and John knew there was some truth in Lestrade's speech, but they still had a role to play. They were the detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, chasing crime was what they were made for. When they had completed their worldwide mission, their return to Baker Street seemed obvious. They didn't even question it.

"But…," Lestrade hesitated, "You would have done it a long time? Listen, I'm just trying to understand. What I mean is that the deal was simple: I had cases and I let you work on it. But it's over. So I'm asking you: what will you do when the people you know won't be longer there? How long will you introduce yourself gently on imaginary crime scenes? I know that puzzles, this is your thing, Sherlock, and you, John, I know you enough to know that you'll follow him anywhere. But you'll really keep doing this knowing it's not real?"

John and Sherlock didn't answer. Lestrade's comments were more and more filled with truth overtones.

"Our work wasn't finished," Sherlock argued then.

But Lestrade shook his head.

"No, Sherlock. It's finished. It ended the moment you jumped off that roof. John's ended the moment he stuck that gun to his head. Listen, don't take wrong what I say, don't believe that I chase you away or anything, quite the contrary. You'll allways be for me the two most amazing men I have ever met, and I'll never forget what you have done. But I think it's time for you to retire."

The poor DI felt his heart break at these words. But he was certain he was right. Yet, he hadn't meant a word for a second before seeing them again. Until now, he had been driven by feelings, by emotion and nostalgia. John and Sherlock were back in London. He wanted to see them again. He _had_ to see them again. His heart had jumped with happiness when he had seen them dash, laugh on the lips, the two extraordinary crime scene troublemakers.

Then he had returned to Baker Street, remembering the days that followed John's death. Clothing, objects, files that were left, everything had been gone, gotten back by Harry. Only remained furnitures and dust, strangely alone in these areas once cluttered with objects and life.

He then had gone into the living room, and he had immediately noticed that something was wrong. The space remained the same nevertheless, only furnished with the few belongings Mrs. Hudson owned. Today, despite the passage of time, she still didn't find the strength to refurbish the premises. The sofa against the wall, two armchairs by the fireplace, nothing had moved.

Still, when treading upon the bare floor that creaked under his feet, it had been overcome with a strange sensation. A shiver had ran down his spine, the Baker Street flat had seemed to close up around him. Walls gave the impression of looking at him. The air seemed permeated with a form of life this place no longer had three years ago.

Baker Street obviously had new tenants.

He had collapsed in the armchair that had once been Sherlock's. Spontaneously, he had remembered the drug bust, when John and Sherlock had just met.

The good old days. He remembered the jar of eyes in the microwave which had shocked Donovan so much. The skull on the mantelpiece. Sherlock and his unbearable cleverness, John and his infinite kindness, the blog, crime scenes, poor Anderson always in sight… The melancholy had twisted his guts, and he had to keep the tears from running down his cheeks. He wanted to see them again, to be again in front of them, to exchange friendly sour civilities, to drink a pint of beer with John, and make his neurons work with Sherlock.

But no.

That was _before_.

And when John and Sherlock had appeared in the living room of Baker Street, he had understood.

The good old days would never be any more.

John and Sherlock were dead, what he had before him was only the remnant of a past impossible to catch up. They shouldn't be here. They should be in peace. Not trying to cling to a semblance of life they no longer had, not trying to continue to see what they wanted to see, to believe what they wanted to believe, not working on cases that never happened, sending imaginary emails or posting entries on a blog that no longer existed. They could claim anything they wanted, the life they had was now rigged, scammed, the pale ghost of what was once a great adventure, but was now only stolen pieces of a present in which they no longer belonged.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had no place here anymore

John looked down while Lestrade was desperately trying to channel his emotion.

"I'm sorry, guys… But you must go. Do it for yourselves."

The two men didn't answer, but unconsciously clung one to the other. There was on their faces as a form of distress.

The DI watched them. He wanted to walk towards them, hug them with force, but despite all his will, he knew he could never touch them. He plunged his hands into his pockets, clenching his fist with stiffness and frustration.

"It's not fair," John whispered.

Lestrade shook his head.

"It never is. I'm sorry, John. If I had known it would end like this…"

"You don't have to blame yourself. You only did your job. It's just… it's so stupid."

"What is stupid?"

John shrugged with a slight amused smile.

"Everything. Our fall, our death, everything that followed. All because of a man smart enough to make up a credible lie, and some people gullible enough to believe it."

This thinly veiled reference to Donovan and Anderson's responsibility made the DI's shoulders bend.

"And you know what amuses me the most?" John continued.

"What?"

"My blog. An entry about a case in Greenwich, an apparent suicide. It was Dimmock who was on it. You know what name I gave to this case? "_The Double Death"_. Ironic, isn't it?"

John chuckled and shook his head, as if struck by the coincidence.

"You know…," Lestrade confessed, "If there was a way to bring you back… and when I say _back_ it's _back_ … Or even to make you work again… I swear I wouldn't hesitate a second. Unfortunately, you must understand that…"

Yes, they understood. They understood all too well. This last year had taken good care of reminding them.

He looked at them.

"Listen, guys, you need to face the truth. You are brilliant, fantastic, I love you, sincerely. But everything has its time. John… Sherlock… You did yours. Cases are your things, I know that. But you won't do that indefinitely. One day or another, we won't be there anymore. And you're going to stay here, solving imaginary cases all alone like idiots? It breaks my heart just thinking about it."

"It is our job, Lestrade," Sherlock persisted. "These crimes, these investigations… it's us. That's why we are here."

But the DI shook his head sadly, in silence. He didn't even need to argue to make the detective understand he was going astray.

There was a long silence during which no one spoke a word. Then, after a long and agonizing hesitation, John and Sherlock finally exchanged glances, and Lestrade understood. His mouth twisted. His voice was blank and dry.

"Just… Do you think we'll see you again … up there?"

He saw Sherlock's jaws contract, then a tear roll down his cheek. It would be the only one he would ever see.

John nodded, both as an assent and as a farewell, and then slipped his arm under Sherlock's. There were on their face as a kind of gentle resignation.

Then the DI's voice suddenly rose:

"Before that," he interrupted, "There's one last thing I want to know."

The momentum froze instantly. John turned his head towards Lestrade, questioning. A flash of surprise crossed Sherlock's eyes, he had a split second of hesitation, but he nevertheless invited him to speak.

"Yes, of course…"

The DI casually slipped his hands into his pockets.

"Your last case, what was it?"

Immediately, an extraordinary burst of gratitude washed over John. In an instant, he forgot the cemetery, he forgot the graves before him, he forgot everything. He just felt like he had hurled back three years ago. His nose suddenly sniffed a sneaky smell of blood, his ears resounded with a shrill siren, his tongue tasted a faint taste of dust, and his body trembled with a new excitement and a new impatience.

Sherlock looked at the officer in astonishment, wondering the reason of his sudden interest for their "cases". But Lestrade remained serene, even encouraging him with a look.

So, Sherlock talked about the Ilford crime scene.

Sherlock lighted up, developing emphatically, even daring to criticize the lack of clues available. He explained the argument that had started in the kitchen, the vegetables crushed in the struggle, the elbow in the refrigerator, everything he had time to analyse and deduce. He also called into question the possibility of a case of domestic violence, the door left open by the husband in his flight clearly showing the panic of a man who wasn't used to hit his wife. Playing the game, Lestrade then committed himself to claim his own assumptions, such as an extramarital affair, revealed some information that the victim's body showed no previous injury to those at the time of her death, the neighbours had never heard arguments before that day. The autopsy and analysis hadn't been performed yet, so he was unable to say anything more, except that the first observations had reported slight injuries. With the exception of the fatal impact, the others partook of superficial haematoma. Sherlock then started up again, suggesting the hypothesis of a simple accident. That during a violent argument during which they had a row, the husband had been able to push the victim who had swung back and smashed the occipital lobe against the corner of the table. So he invited the DI to comb through his index notebook and visit his closest contacts as a priority. The husband was certainly hiding at a reliable person, stricken by his actions. To make him explain the reasons of the accident would then be child's play.

John didn't say a word during the whole report. He didn't need to, and he didn't want to, just smiling before the trance that drove the detective. This moment, it was Sherlock's and no one else's. Despite what he had always said, Sherlock had missed this attention, the opportunity to display his genius. He had missed collaborations and arguments, analysis and cons-theories. So John stood back, leaving his friend the prestige of the deduction, just smiling at the many compliments that came through his mind at that moment. And he looked at the detective and the officer, touched, sent by nostalgia, but the bottom of his eyes covered by a sad veil. Because he knew.

This case, as fake as it was, would be the last one.

Their last hurrah.

Sherlock then ended his long list of instructions to the DI, including to stop meeting the brunette he was currently dating, the lady obviously more in search of thrills than great love. The officer nodded to make clear that he understood and would follow the recommendation to the letter. He tried valiantly to keep his professionalism, but his pain was evident in his eyes. He also knew the outcome, on his face were confronting grief and denial. John then reassured him with a sweet smile, and then slipped his arm again under the detective's.

There was a silence, during which nobody had nothing to say.

"Sherlock…," then Lestrade whispered, "I… I'll tell your brother that you are fine."

The DI felt his words wobbly and ridiculous, but that was all he found to say. Sherlock thanked him with a nod, and this was the last image Lestrade kept of them. His face twitched and he broke down, unable to contain his distress any longer. His legs buckled under him, tears were streaming down his cheeks, and he cried.

Alone.

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	12. Chapter 12

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**Notes:** EPILOGUE! MAKE SURE YOU READ CHAPTER 11 FIRST!

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**Epilogue**

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"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What do you think is there on the other side?"

"I must admit I haven't the faintest idea."

"Do you think we'll go to paradise?"

"Don't be stupid, John, paradise doesn't exist. This is a totally made up subjective concept in order to enslave simple minded stupid enough to believe it."

"…"

"And even if paradise existed, it must be so boring… Do you think crime exists in paradise?"

"I don't think so. Rather in hell, but I doubt that they'll leave you investigate as you please."

"Boring."

"…"

"John…"

"Yes?"

"Where do you think we'll go, then?"

"And what if for once you let yourself be surprised? You'll see when you arrive."

"I hate surprises."

"I don't know where we're going, but I feel they will have fun with you."

"Stop making fun of me."

"…"

"John…"

"Yes, I saw it too."

"You think it's there?"

"Looks like it."

"Follow me."

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**Note:** Done! Hope you liked it, I don't even know why I wrote this. But I hope you liked it anyway!

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